The first time we met. I was 14, and we were both in the art room after class. I knew who he was because my best friend had a longtime crush on him. He was a bad boy—spiky hair, eyeliner, baggy clothes—the kind that my parents would immediately disapprove of. He and I had never officially met, so I went up to him and struck up a conversation. About what? I don’t even know. And then he wrote his email on a piece of masking tape. “Add me on MSN Messenger,” he said. That was it. That’s all it took, and I was hooked. I kept that piece of masking tape, treasured it like it was a precious memento, leaving it pinned on my bulletin board for years.

The first time we kissed. It was senior year of high school and we were at a bar with all of our friends. Bored and drunk, someone suggested we play truth or dare. It was his turn and he was dared to kiss me. He got up and held both of my hands in his, and it was a kiss so sweet that I thought about it for years.

The first time we went on a date. It was summer, and I was home after my sophomore year of college. I felt flustered. He came all the way to a restaurant near me. We had pasta, and I was almost too nervous to eat. We walked along the promenade, holding hands. We kissed, and I'd dream about being together for years.

The first time he said I love you. It was over the phone. I paused, and the silence stretched like a gulf between us. Tell me you love me back, he demanded. I didn’t want to, even though I did. Love him, that is, and I had for years.

The first time we had sex. It was junior year of college and I was invited to my cousin’s wedding near his school. We picked him up and he stayed with us. The night before the wedding, he came over to my room. I had my period, but I wanted to do it, so we laid down a towel. I bled a lot and we had to wash the towel together and ourselves, together. We cuddled afterward and drifted asleep to cartoons. We slept together again the next night, but I was too drunk to remember. I wished I hadn’t been so I could’ve remembered it for years.

The first time he broke my heart. It happened soon after we had sex. My friend called to tell me that she saw on Facebook he was in a relationship. He was one of my closest friends, and he didn’t even bother to tell me. I cried more than I had ever cried. I didn’t forgive him for years.

The first time we talked again doesn’t really count because it was short-lived. He blamed me for breaking up our friend group. The fallout was so permanent, to this day, there are still people he hasn’t talked to for years.

The actual first time we talked again was after his accident. He damaged his spine from playing basketball. He was hospitalized and the doctors didn’t think he’d ever walk again. I visited him, saw him immobile in the hospital bed, broken, both in body and in spirit, and immediately tossed aside my grudges and grievances. I’d think about how he was doing for years.

The first time we reconnected. He was in rehab. He miraculously recovered. He overcame all odds and was walking again, though with a cane. We met for lunch but barely touched our meal, absorbed in our conversation. I was visiting from New York City, having found myself a secure job and a secure relationship. He called me the night before my flight back. “We’ll end up together,” he promised. “Childhood friends always do.” And I struggled to come to terms with it for years.

The first time he met my husband. “I’ll love him just as much as I love you,” he assured me before my husband was to land. Ok sure, I shrugged. But they met—and got along—and that would be the last time we'd see each other again for years.